Sitting In The Middle Waiting
by Never-Clip-My-Wings-x
Summary: Nicki recieves a letter - one that will change her life; and those of everyone around her - forever. Nothing will ever be quite the same again...
1. Chapter 1

_So, I've spent the last week basically listening to my weird music and thinking (bad sign!). I heard this song the other day and I was actually crying listening to it because it meant so much to me. How sad am I? Anyway, I think there's more to Nicki's past than we're seeing, so I thought I'd write my view on it. Song I was listening to is "4st 7lbs" by Manic Street Preachers. My God, I babble on too much in my intros – sorry! Thank you to HedgieX for looking at this before it was posted._

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She couldn't stand watching him suffer and not being able to help him. She'd been in this position before; and she'd been so helpless, so damn _useless_, she hadn't been able to stop it happening.

At least Josh had a good father, she thought to herself. Tom cared; he would do anything to help his son. Unlike the man she had known, Tom wouldn't dream of hurting his child in a million years. If only she'd had a man like him. She still could – they were closer than most colleagues, they spent evenings together eating takeaways in classrooms, marking, talking, flirting. But it was too late. She couldn't help now.

She'd never told Tom about her past. He'd never asked – he probably knew that if she wanted to tell him, she would. She did want to tell him, but she couldn't bring herself to talk about it. She knew she'd cry, and he'd comfort her like the kind, caring man that he was, but she couldn't cope with someone caring about her – she hadn't felt that for so long, she didn't understand it.

She opened her handbag, and took out an envelope. It had been in her pigeon hole this morning, addressed to her at school in feminine handwriting, blots of ink scattering the slightly ripped, crumpled envelope. She hadn't got round to opening it yet; she'd been psyching herself up all day, and getting interrupted seemingly every time she even went near it.

She turned the letter over with shaking hands, sliding a finger under it and ripping it open quickly.

Several pieces of dog-eared, crumpled paper fell out onto her neat desk – Polaroid pictures and lined paper with the same handwriting on them, folded up to fit into the envelope, now lying on a Year Eleven's English book, abandoned. One got the impression that the letter and photos had been prepared, then thrown carelessly into a handbag and left there for several days or weeks, becoming crumpled and torn over the course of its' life.

She cursed under her breath as she tried to stem the bleeding from the paper cut she had just acquired on her index finger from opening the envelope.

"You alright?" came Tom's voice from the door, making her jump and knock the photos off her desk. They fluttered down to the carpeted floor, and one turned face up – it had to be the one closest to him, of course. Tom cautiously picked it up off the floor and squinted at it, frowning, his blue eyes darting from the photo to her.

The girl in the picture was an extremely skinny, leggy teenager with dark blonde, wavy hair which came down to her waist. She had piercing blue eyes – familiar eyes, he thought. He imagined that she was eighteen at most – she had a young face, but she was tall – at a guess, five foot eight. She wasn't smiling – her eyes were dull and sad, her lips painted warm red in contrast to her porcelain skin.

"Nikki..." he paused, glancing from the picture to her and making eye contact. Her orbs were swimming with unshed tears, threatening to spill over and trail down her perfect face. She bit her bottom lip, now looking at the floor rather than him, in a failing attempt at keeping her calm.

He suddenly took her hand, handing her back the pictures which she took gladly, grasping them between her shaking fingers, a sob wracking through her body.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, and she stood up, high heels abandoned under her desk, letting him hold her, letting herself cry into his shoulder, knowing they were alone with no risk of anybody discovering them, and he stroked her hair gently, whispering to her, soothing her as if she was a little girl. She felt tiny, vulnerable to him like this – and he was sure, in that moment, that he was the closest person to her – not just geographically speaking.

"Sorry." She said hoarsely, looking away from him and back to the pile of hurriedly marked books lying on her desk, her hair seemed near-black in this lighting as she internally debated what to do.

She could run – which, bearing in mind the height of her shoes, was not a practical idea. She could shout at him, tell him to get lost and never speak to her again – which was a ridiculous notion; as they saw each other every day, and were far, far closer than colleagues usually were – especially having only known each other a matter of months.

Her third option – the one which seemed most open, sensible and realistic – was to lay herself bare to him – not necessarily literally; but, she hoped privately, one day, it may happen.

_Shut up, you idiot._

"What does the letter say?" he asked, interrupting her internal debate, aware that he was very much invading her closely-guarded privacy, and running the very real risk of her shutting him out altogether.

Surprisingly, as he released her from his strong embrace, she bent down to pick up the letter from the dark carpet, unfolding it and gesturing for him to lean on her desk as she sat down on the chair.

He watched her carefully as she began to read; but after just a few seconds, she placed it on the desk and pushed it away, covering her eyes with her right hand and gazing out of the window; clearly fighting back tears which she didn't want him to see.

He knew she believed that he thought that she was weak. Crying twice in front of him in the space of five minutes was, to her, a sign that she couldn't handle her own emotions; that she needed someone to look after her – that she was incapable of doing so herself.

On the contrary; she was the bravest woman he'd ever met. She'd tackled a knife-carrying drug dealer on the day of her assessment; been punched in the face by Kyle Stack _and_ been called a stuck up cow by just about anyone who didn't know her. Indeed; he had held the very same opinion of her at first; but after just a few minutes speaking to her; he knew that she was kind, funny and, surprisingly, mischievous. She'd faced everything without as much as a single tear; but a letter and a couple of pictures completely broke her.

"Can I read it?" he asked, his hand hovering over the paper, testing his willpower to not look without her permission. She nodded silently; still faced away from him, although he could tell exactly how her facial expression would look, "Shall I read it to you?"

He felt like a father reading to his daughter – the vulnerable woman sat in the chair did not resemble Nicki Boston in character. In body, yes – tall, lean, and absolutely beautiful – but shaking, crying and looking away was not something he'd ever thought that Nicki was capable of.

"Yeah." She replied in more of an exhalation than a voice, hushed as if she didn't want anyone else to hear; although Grantly was probably asleep with his beloved Racing Post, Michael was telling Janeece off for painting her toenails whilst supposedly organising files, and Jez was chasing unenthusiastic sixth formers around the field.

He unfolded the paper, frowning at the first few words. He inhaled deeply, the smell of her filling his nostrils – spicy, fruity and feminine – and began to read.

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_Ha! Cliffhanger._

_Thankyou to everyone reading. Please review, and I will try to get back to _


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Mum,_

_First of all, I'm sorry; because I'm almost entirely sure that you don't want to know me, and a letter from me is the last thing you want to get in the post. But anyway._

_To keep it brief, I'll get to the point, shall I? My dad's kicked me out. He's married again, and they have two kids; as well as one from her last marriage._

_It wasn't even my fault (although you may find it hard to believe) – I came back from uni, and my stuff was on the doorstep. I'm staying in hotels at the moment; but it's costing me more than I've got and now that I haven't got him stopping me, I want to see you again. If you'll speak to me, which I doubt you'd want to after all these years. Why would you even want to know me? I may be your daughter, but I'm his too. I wish I wasn't, but I can't help it, can I? He doesn't treat me like his only daughter. I'm your little girl, not his._

_I got your work address out of my dad's diary, but I don't know why he has it. Anyway, I thought you should know that he does – and your home address. Congratulations on the Head of English job – I hope you'd be proud of me doing a degree in English. I'm at Oxford, like you. You told me I could do it, and I have. Maybe you don't care – in fact, I can't imagine that you're interested enough in me to have read this far. Anyway, if you have..._

_This sounds so melodramatic I don't even know why I'm writing it, but there are some pictures of me, so you know what I look like now. Disgusting, I know, but maybe you'd like to see how your little girl turned out. Maybe you wouldn't, but they're there anyway. My mobile number is written on the back of the one where I'm wearing the grey top. I've still got the photo of us at The Globe, when you took me to see Much Ado about Nothing. My favourite Shakespeare play – it was yours too. You always said; there's no such thing as love at first sight – only attraction. You learn to love, you said – but I don't think I've ever been taught._

_I'm eighteen now – my first year at university. I don't know what I want to do, but I've always loved English. You taught me to love it. Don't you remember? The last birthday present you got me was Jane Eyre. It's my favourite book – has been since my fourteenth birthday when I got it. The copy you bought me is my prized possession; a first edition. As well as the paperback copy so that I didn't lose the first edition. You knew me too well. I looked after it, though – I always will. I nearly never got it – my dad kept it in his office, but I found it. I've even got the letter you sent._

_Emily.  
xxx_

* * *

The pages were tearstained, with doodles, crossings out and splatters of ink across the paper. Tom held the paper, incapable of speech, just staring at the words, which made no sense as his vision blurred.

Nicki. Daughter. Nicki had a daughter. _Nicki Boston_ had a _daughter_.

She pulled the letter from his hands, tears streaming down her face as she read it for herself; as if she was confirming what he'd just told her – determining that he was telling her the truth. She stroked the paper, as if she was hoping to get some form of physical comfort from the black inked words.

He was frozen; caught between the shock of the revelations within the letter, and the dilemma as to what he was going to say to Nicki – or at least the quaking, shell-shocked form that physically resembled her; anyway.

"Close the door." She murmured; her voice choked with emotion, words barely audible above the deafening silence.

He followed her command; weak as it was, and closed the red classroom door. The sun shone into the classroom from the playground, falling across her features and shading part of her face. He picked the pictures up from her desk; analysing each one closely, as if they were clues leading to an earth-shattering fact – which they were, really.

The first was of the girl he now knew to be Emily sat at a window; overlooking a river. She wore a charcoal coloured tank top; just showing her protruding ribs – he could count each one above the fraying edge of the top. Her limbs were long, lanky and far too skinny – it was hard to imagine that they could support a person without snapping in two like matchsticks. Now he looked closer; he saw the resemblance she bore to Nicki – big, blue eyes which could easily lose someone in; high cheekbones and a long, slim neck. She was truly beautiful – so much like her mother; and at the same time, so very different.

The second was the photo he had first picked up – in which Emily wore a black lace dress – once again, highlighting the bones on her chest and shoulders. Her wavy hair was down to her tiny waist; darker roots growing into her light blonde locks – dyed scarlet at the ends, matching her immaculately painted lips. She was leaning against a bridge – in the background, he could just make out the Houses of Parliament; partially hidden by the thick grey cloud that was prominent behind her. Her eyes were dull and sad; without as much as a flicker of hope behind the clouds of darkness and despair.

In the final photograph; she bore such a resemblance to her mother that he couldn't help but hold his breath for a moment. Her blue eyes were intense; drawing him in further, just as Nicki did every time their eyes met – Emily wore a black dress; the sweetheart neckline revealing her bony chest; her pale skin stretched across her bones as if she was merely a skeleton draped in flesh. There was a black cuff on her right wrist; behind which partially healed slits resided upon her porcelain skin. Looking closer, there were marks whiter than her skin along the length of her skinny limbs; but the scars that hurt the most were those not visible to his eyes.

He heard Nicki choking on her own breaths, the air suffocating her as she tried to string together a coherent sentence. She bit down on her bottom lip hard; a droplet of blood running down across her skin – contrasting scarlet against her face which had lost its' usual glow in the few minutes since she had read the letter.

"She looks like you." He stated simply; placing the pictures down on her desk and touching the top of her arm. She shivered as if he was touching her with ice; despite it being a warm summer evening in early June. He wiped the drop of blood from her lip as she quivered; her eyes portraying the heartbreak she couldn't quite manage to hide from him.

Without warning, he was holding her in his arms as they leant against the old wooden desk; letter and photographs scattered across the cluttered desktop. Her hand crept to his shoulder; brushing the back of his neck lightly, sending shivers down his spine as he held her close to him; stroking her hair as she buried her head in his shoulder. He could smell her perfume; the one he could recognise a mile away as hers – he couldn't quite pin what it was about it that made him recognise it; but the fact that he couldn't quite get at what it was seemed to sum up Nicki perfectly.

"I'm sorry." She sniffed, wiping the tears from her vivid blue eyes; looking up at him almost timidly – waiting for a response; hardly daring to breathe as she awaited his reaction. Her hand had dropped; and it was now hanging limply by her side, shaking slightly as he clasped it in his. He wiped the blood from her lip and she smiled distantly; staring wistfully out of the window at nothing in particular. They both leant against the desk; hands still linked, but neither of them paying much attention.

"D'you want dinner?" he asked; abruptly changing the subject, catching her slightly off guard. She frowned; smiling at the same time with a sparkle in her eyes caused not by bitter tears, but by the beautiful expression which now graced her face. Although a few stray tears were still evident upon her light skin, her tears had, for now, subsided; leaving behind a far calmer, and, if possible, more beautiful, woman. Despite the newly formed tough exterior, he now knew the vulnerability which existed within her.

She nodded; the movement only slight, yet carrying such meaning that it almost didn't fit. She picked up the letter and Polaroid photographs, carefully folding them and holding them to her body as if they physically were the girl within them. Her fringe hung over her face; hiding one bright blue eye behind a dark brown lock.

She took her handbag, slinging it over her right shoulder as she stood up fully; a smile finally gracing her features; illuminating her face as she stretched up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, their hands still entwined, fingers lightly caressing as she felt his breath on her neck. She was so close to him that she could see the pulse in his neck; hear each breath as he took it; smell the aftershave on his skin.

He rested his hand on her shoulder, smiling as they advanced towards the door. Suddenly, she stopped, turning to him with a serious expression upon her face.

"Don't tell anyone." She warned; a slightly darker undertone to her voice than he'd ever heard, "Not Josh; not Sian; not Michael. Nobody knows; and nobody's going to know."

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**I apologise for how long this has taken. But my life is hectic at the moment. Expect an update on **_**Something Burning**_** within the next couple of weeks. And I hope you enjoyed reading. xxx**


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